


(sister) hide our love away

by archetypically



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, Their childhood was practically the Hunger Games anyway so it fits right, Who's still writing Hunger Games AUs in 2019, just go with me here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archetypically/pseuds/archetypically
Summary: “It won’t matter,” Nebula practically spits, “when I have the honor of being chosen and becoming the greatest victor this district has ever seen.”If Gamora were inclined, she’d almost laugh, but a day like today calls for that less than most. “Not if the other tributes don’t kill you first.”Hunger Games AU. One shot.





	(sister) hide our love away

Her sister, Gamora thinks, is sloppier than usual. She finds that she has plenty of time to anticipate each oncoming attack, and repeatedly ducks to avoid the blade with ease. The countering offenses come without struggle, without thought; she barely even feels tired by the time she has Nebula pinned to the floor, a knee holding each arm in place.

This is an embarrassment on the day of the reaping, the last chance to hone any skills before they potentially become useful.

Surely Nebula knows it, too. Somewhere between the hard set of her jaw, the stubbornness in her eyes, and the continuing futile struggles against the hold she’s now under, she surely knows what their father would think.

(She surely knows exactly what would happen to her if he walked into the training center right now to find this scene playing out.)

Gamora lets out a long breath and rolls her eyes. “Give it up, Nebula,” she says, finally. “It’s over. I won.”

At that, Nebula stops. Gamora lifts her knees and stands back, glancing behind her before allowing Nebula the courtesy of space to collect herself.

( _“Kindness is a weakness, Gamora,”_ comes her father’s voice from the back of her mind. _“It’s not befitting for one of your potential.”_ )

Silence settles in the air between them. Gamora reaches into her pocket for a cloth, begins to wipe the blade of her knife. She’s almost lost herself to the methodical motion of the task by the time Nebula recovers, and though she takes care not to show it, she starts, just slightly, when her sister steps into her space and accosts her with narrowed eyes.

“It won’t matter,” Nebula practically spits, “when I have the honor of being chosen and becoming the greatest victor this district has ever seen.”

If Gamora were inclined, she’d almost laugh, but a day like today calls for that less than most. “Not if the other tributes don’t kill you first.” Her voice is even in the end, with no trace of mocking or anything else. There are only facts here. “With that performance, you wouldn’t last past the first night.”

Nebula opens her mouth, likely to provide an argument as futile as any of her other recent efforts, when the sound of a siren pierces the air around them, its echoes bouncing off the training center walls over and over again. It’s time to go.

“May the odds be ever in your _favor_ ,” she sneers, before turning on her heel and walking toward the door.

\---

The sun is high in the sky, and it bears down painfully on the District Two square.

Gamora doesn’t believe it to be an accident that the reaping always comes on the hottest day of the year, just to add to the torture of being packed and shuttled around like cattle, of standing for hours until knees practically give out, waiting for just five minutes that will decide so many fates. Yes, _torture_ ; it’s supposed to be an honorable occasion, this chance that one may be called to represent their district in the hope of achieving ultimate glory, but nothing about this feels glorious at all whatsoever.

These are thoughts that she, of course, keeps to herself. Many parties would not look upon them favorably, and she values her life too much to not test their boundaries.

The Capitol escort arrives almost an hour late, and she can practically _feel_ the breath of relief exhaled by the crowd around her. She understands the sentiment; the fabric of the formal dress her father had chosen for her is sticking to her skin, and adding what seems like at least five pounds of unnecessary dead weight to her body. This isn’t the first time she’s fantasized about burning it.

And, she thinks, she’s sure it won’t be the last.

After the customary fanfare, the escort steps onto the stage set up in the middle of the square, heels _clack clack clack_ ing as she takes almost two minutes too long to find her way to the microphone. For as long as she lives, Gamora doesn’t think she will ever understand the ridiculous inefficiencies of the Capitol.

By this point in her life, she can practically recite the opening remarks in her sleep, so she tunes the shrill voice and everything else out until an attendant brings the bowl with the names, and sets it on the table in front of the escort.

“So, for the girls — ” There’s a long pause as the escort’s impractically long-nailed fingers struggle to grasp onto a single slip of paper from the bowl, and then struggle to unfold it once she finally manages the grasp. “Nebula!”

Something unidentifiable sinks to the pit of Gamora’s stomach.

She glances out of the corner of her eye to find her sister in the crowd, and she thinks she detects the smallest hint of fear on her face before it disappears; by the time her eyes meet Gamora’s, though, her whole expression morphs into something more — _smug_. Gamora’s mind races as she watches Nebula part her way through the throngs and make her way toward the stage, head held high, like she’s achieved the proudest moment of her life.

No, is the only coherent thought that emerges from the jumble. No.

The world seems to freeze around her as she watches each slow step while her legs feel more and more like they’re turning to lead, as, at one point, her eyes drift behind her and pick her father out of the masses, focus as closely as she can from this distance on his features. To the uninitiated, his expression is the picture of inscrutable, but Gamora knows better. Even if the best case scenario were to play out, none of this is what he wants; even if Nebula somehow succeeds, somehow becomes the victor she has long desperately dreamed of being, that will never change the fact that she had been far from his first choice, or his fifth, tenth, _hundredth_.

None of this is is what he wants, and because of that, there will be consequences.

There’s only one choice to make.

She steps forward, posture as sure and confident as her voice.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

**Author's Note:**

> always up for writing prompts and general screaming on [tumblr](https://gamorazenwhoberis.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
